In the Heart of a Friend
by andromeda's song
Summary: "He had a someone...a person. His person." A fic comprised of one-shots and character studies detailing the relationship between Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, as well as their relationships with the other people in their lives. Friendship, romance, angst, and a metric-ton of fluff...all our favourites in one place. Title from a Longfellow poem of the same name.
1. Steel upon Silk

**Hey everybody! I sincerely hope all is well with you and yours. :) I've begun a journey with this new fic, and I don't really know where exactly it's going to take me yet, but I'm excited for it.  
**

**I couldn't get the phrase _steel upon silk_ out of my head in relation to Sherlock and his idiosyncrasies. So I turned it into a character study and it all kinda ran away from me after that. **

**So...just so you're aware... there will be rather lengthy character studies in this fic, and they will be interspersed with action shots taken from the studies (some ACD/BBC canon, some from my own WILD imagination). You don't necessarily have to read the character studies (but I worked really hard on them so it'd be nice if you did!). **

**Okay, you've been warned. ;) On with the show! **

* * *

_Iron—the most common element by mass in the Earth as a whole, existing in a wide range of oxidation states. Pure iron is soft, but is unobtainable through the process of smelting. The iron itself is hardened and strengthened by the impurities that come with the smelting process, usually carbon. When fused with the right amounts of carbon, iron produces steel. Steel is one of the most common metals used in industry. The carbon molecules keep the iron bonds from fraying, and a number of other elements contribute to the hardness, ductility, and tensile strength. _

_Silk—a popular luxury textile; made from a natural protein fibre composed mainly of fibroin. Silk is used primarily in clothing (shirts, ties, blouses, dresses, lingerie, suits, robes, etc…). It is also used in upholstery, rugs, bedding, and wall hangings. Silk is renowned for its lustre and smooth, soft feeling that is not slippery, unlike synthetic fibres. Silk is also one of the strongest natural fibres, but it has poor elasticity and does not conduct electricity well. _

* * *

Sherlock Holmes is an enigma. I suppose it's unavoidable when you refuse to let other people into your mind and your heart. Even the people that are closest to him have often found themselves scratching their heads in puzzlement (and often annoyance) at the mysterious man with his razor-sharp cheekbones and biting intelligence. Yes, he's an enigma alright. One minute he can be languorous and still, drifting in the space between waking and sleeping even though his brain is being ravaged by the stillness of tedium, and the next minute he is racing around like a prized greyhound, eagerly set upon the trail of another wrong-doer, that same great brain burning now with the thrill of the chase. The duality of his spirit is something that philosophers will muse upon for ages to come. His vivaciousness is offset by his lethargy. His passion is offset by his indifference. His intelligence is offset by his preposterousness. Many people see a paradox when they see Sherlock Holmes. But I think in all honesty… Sherlock Holmes is not a paradox. He is not a mystery. He is not a riddle or a puzzle to be solved.

Sherlock Holmes is merely an unbalanced formula.

Sherlock at his very core is like pure iron. Contrary to popular belief, pure iron is actually a soft metal (softer than aluminium). It is only when the pure iron ore is mixed with the impurities of the smelting process that it becomes harder. Although Sherlock's childhood was by no means ordinary, there were a lot of steps in between that carefree youth and the terrible reality of adulthood. As the smelting process introduces impurities and other elements into iron ore that harden and strengthen it, so the people and events that surrounded Sherlock Holmes transformed him into the cool, calculating, and wickedly intelligent being that prowled London and points beyond looking for stimuli to keep him from going mad.

He'd always been different, make no mistake about that. The Holmes family was neither uncaring nor unkind, but two children such as Mycroft and Sherlock Holmes were bound to introduce some… eccentricities into their daily lives. The Holmes children had been taught from early ages to observe the world around them and make the connections between things. The transfer of knowledge was valued by both parents and they encouraged their children to not only see their world…but to observe it as well. They were taught to not only understand…but comprehend as well. In that kind of an environment, it was not surprising when the siblings began to read people's lives in their shirt cuffs, left thumbnails, and shoelaces.

For Mycroft, the observations and deductions that coursed through his mind at any given moment were just background noise. No doubt it helped him to do his job most thoroughly, and as a minor official in the British government, his skills had proven to be useful in more than one situation. However, the well-tuned mind of Mycroft Holmes was simply that; well-tuned, a machine that works without hiccups. It runs efficiently and quietly and Mycroft is perfectly content to do what he does. It is not that he lacks drive or passion, because one could hardly become the British government without either. Mycroft is simply content to do without the legwork.

Sherlock, on the other hand, is the perfect embodiment of organised chaos. We have discussed before the duality of his spirit and his seemingly paradoxical existence. Here is a man with a keen intelligence that surpasses everyone he knows except for his brother and the one or two vexing criminals that have escaped him in the past (and they're not necessarily smarter…but maybe…quicker). Sherlock is a master of a great many areas of knowledge, both theoretical and practical. He lives for his work as a consulting detective, a career that he himself invented…ever the pragmatist. Whereas his elder brother despises the legwork, Sherlock yearns for it like a hound after a fox. His mind is in constant need of attention and maintenance; the work provides that for him.

But the work wasn't always around. It had been some time before Sherlock realised that he could manage to make a living doing what he does best. But there were other distractions that fed his mind before the work came along to be his mistress. As I said, the people and events in Sherlock's life are like the impurities of the smelting process that harden and strengthen the iron ore. Sherlock had once been like the soft iron ore. He still is, I suppose, but he is not easily extractable.

The first element to strengthen him was his education and devotion to learning. Here was the child who had learned to speak at a very early age and had become trilingual by age five (in English, French, and Latin). Here was the child that made his own chemistry set using bits and bobs from his father's older sets. He would spend long hours in the gardens and the forest sketching plants and animals and then spend more hours bent over encyclopaedias learning everything there was to know about them. Sherlock's thirst for information carried him through his school years and into his adulthood, and even now, the man has a consistent desire to learn and study everything and anything that he wishes. Over time, he has learned to filter out the trivial information, the great brain working like a sieve. Even so, the impact of his constant accruing of information on every level makes him stronger.

The first impurity to harden him was the bullying. Sherlock would never in his life admit it, but the bullying hurt him deeply. With his keen mind, he could laugh it off or deduce something scandalous about the bully(s), which would temporarily take care of the problem. Sherlock was always chanting a mantra about how it didn't mean anything and they were merely jealous of his intellect. Because he was intelligent, he knew that his tormentors were just deflecting their own esteem issues on to him in an effort to gain control over their feelings and actions. It was simple psychology. And yet…understanding why his bullies were bullies didn't make it any easier to endure their onslaught. When Sherlock was alone and the memories of his distress came flooding back to him, it was everything he could do to not drop to the floor and weep like a toddler. I'm afraid he did actually cry, and more than once at that. But as the years progressed, nothing changed. Sherlock changed grades faster than anyone and attended several schools in order to keep up with his need for higher learning. But the people never changed. They cringed in the sight of his then unassuming intelligence and muttered awful things about him, sometimes without even the decency to do it behind his back. And so, as he grew older, Sherlock also grew harder. He kept everything that he was inside a shell, only letting out his biting intelligence, sarcastic wit, and sharp deductions. He was determined that vulnerability was a weakness…and he would not be weak.

University changed virtually nothing. The work was more difficult, which was a welcome challenge. The people around him seemed less concerned with him and more concerned with their own workloads and degrees, a change that suited Sherlock Holmes just fine. However, there was something decidedly different about Sherlock's years at the university because of one simple thing; it was that place of higher education in which Sherlock began to use his deductive powers to solve puzzles. It all started with a missing Bunsen burner from the lab and he'd been able to prove that an idiot in his lab named Victor Trevor had taken it in order to roast marshmallows with his friends in their flat. Victor had returned the burner with sarcastic shame, but he'd genuinely taken an interest in the tall, curly-haired man who had ratted him out. Victor stopped Sherlock in the courtyard and asked him how he'd figured it out. I imagine that their conversation went something like this:

Victor: "Hey… hey, you! Stop, I want to talk to you."

Sherlock: "What do you want?"

Victor: "How'd you know?"

Sherlock: "How did I know you'd taken the burner?"

Victor: "Obviously…"

Sherlock: "Simple. You work in that lab, so you're automatically included as a suspect. As I recall, Professor Wellsey instructed you and your lab partner to clean the lab after class was dismissed, seeing as how you two had created that mess with the fluoride that day, so you had the opportunity to take it unobserved, since Wellsey doesn't have the propensity to stick around after class. Furthermore, you have a bandage around finger where you accidentally burned it and a corresponding scorch mark on the cuff of your jacket."

Victor: "How do you know that wasn't just from class or perhaps an accident in the kitchen?"

Sherlock: "It wasn't from class because your lab partner always turns on the burner when we work with them. If it had been an accident in the kitchen, you wouldn't have the scorch mark on your jacket, because who wears their jacket when cooking?"

Victor: "Well…how about that."

Sherlock: "You also have dried marshmallow in your goatee and I have the habit of listening in to the campus rumour mills. It's not exactly accurate, but one tends to find news items of note amongst them. Your escapade was…listed, as it were."

Victor: "You're good."

Sherlock: "I know."

Victor: "Humble too. Have you ever considered doing this for a living?"

Sherlock: "….. and how would you expect me to do that?"

Victor: "I dunno… maybe be a detective or something… work with New Scotland Yard or the Met."

Sherlock: "Dull….too much paperwork. But I will… consider you proposal."

Victor: "I suspect you shall. No hard feelings, then. Maybe I'll see you around then?"

Sherlock: "Perhaps you shall."

Victor: "Victor Trevor, by the way."

Sherlock: "Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes."

As I said, that's how I imagine it all began…with an innocent suggestion and a moderately civil exchange. I don't really know how it happened in reality, but I suppose it doesn't really matter. However it happened, Sherlock began to see that his deductive abilities could carve new pathways for him. His knack for solving little crimes and puzzles continued throughout his affair with higher education. By the time he graduated, he'd solved several disappearances, a few thefts, and even one attempted murder. It was during this last that Sherlock first made his acquaintance with a younger sergeant in Scotland Yard, a smart and sympathetic man named Greg Lestrade.

Most people were simultaneously startled and terrified when Sherlock would reveal his great insight into people's lives from the clues they presented without ever knowing. It was one reason why Sherlock tended to keep to himself; as much as he loved an audience, one could only take so many metaphorical tomatoes to the face. Victor Trevor had been the first one to not run away from Sherlock's deductions screaming into the night…he'd even given Sherlock praise for his actions. It was almost unsettling. Greg Lestrade had been the second person to not shrink away in the light of his deductions. His exact reaction had been "How the hell did you know that?" and "Holy buggering… you got all that from _the window sill_?" It had stimulated a burst of pride in Sherlock that I'm afraid never went away. In fact, it could be argued that it only worse as time passed.

Yes, Greg Lestrade saw potential in the young man who saw _and_ observed. Here was a young man who could tell you the most intimate details about your life simply by looking at your shirt cuffs or your left pinkie finger. Lestrade remembered how the young man had sidled up to him at the crime scene at the university and told him in a totally deadpan manner that the person they were looking for would be roughly 1.8 metres in height, left-handed, was a high jumper or a pole vaulter, and worked as a mechanic. When the raven-haired man had continued to explain how he'd reached his conclusions, Lestrade hadn't been able to keep his shock/amazement to himself. He'd pestered the young man for a business card, but the man had simply stared at him with wide blue-grey eyes and said, "Sherlock Holmes, I'm sure you'll remember it," and then walked away without another word. Lestrade did indeed remember it when he became a detective inspector several years later and found the same young man lying in a gutter strung out on a hit of cocaine.

Cocaine. In the idleness that followed university, Sherlock found his mind wanting for distraction. The tedium of everyday life that so many find relaxing and re-energizing was toxic for Sherlock. In the absence of studying, experimenting, or solving little crimes, his mind was laid waste by boredom and lack of stimulation. The humming of his overactive mind whirred and clicked and roared like an angry mechanical beast. The buzzing filled him like a constant barrage of static white noise and made him restless and anxious. Sherlock didn't really remember how he had reasoned that artificial stimulation would be the best balm for his ills, but I suppose it doesn't really matter. The cocaine he secured was like a white-hot iron in his mind and damn it all if it didn't feel so good. It made everything bright and shiny and blissfully quiet and Sherlock was able to escape, if only for a few hours.

But I'm afraid that when Lestrade found him hunched in a back alley, pale and thin and strung out, he realised that the cocaine was a vulnerability—a chink in his armour. His dependence upon the drug to shut out the screams of his overtaxed mind would surely haunt him. What would happen if he someday was unable to find his fix? What if the next time his ego got the better of him, he ended up comatose or dead from an overdose?

But like every person who has ever been addicted to anything, the temptation of sweet release was beckoning every second that his mind didn't have a problem to focus on. It was then that Detective Inspector Lestrade offered the young man a deal. If he could stay clean, he would share some of the Yard's most baffling cold case files with him. Sherlock had agreed and the rest, as they say, is history. Sherlock found lodgings on Baker Street when he'd helped the landlady, a charming older woman named Martha Hudson, deal with an irritating ex-husband issue. Sherlock stayed clean (for the most part) and worked tirelessly through the cold case files. Eventually, he took Victor Trevor's advice and offered his services as a consulting detective.

Being a consulting detective suited Sherlock Holmes like Royal Albert Hall suits the London Symphony Orchestra. At first, the cold case files just provided exciting little puzzles for his eager mind to chew on, keeping him away from the cocaine and the temptation. However, there came the inevitable junction when Detective Inspector Lestrade saw before him two things; the genius (and madness) of Sherlock Holmes, and his need as a DI to get answers to a horrifically violent and mystifying case that had him and all of his officers stumped. Sherlock knew this…he'd read it in Lestrade's face and posture. He'd offered to take a look at the crime scene and the evidence, and Lestrade had allowed him. The younger man had been at the scene for all of five minutes before he rattled off a string of impressive deductions that had amazed and terrified everyone gathered. Sherlock had ended up chasing the criminal down himself like a hound chasing a fox, and from that moment, he was hooked. The thrill of the chase and the satisfaction of solving the mystery was more addictive than any substance he'd ever taken. And so, he became the world's first consulting detective, assisting the detectives at New Scotland Yard with cases that are out of their depth (which is always). He was the lone hunter on the prowl. He is the first and last of his kind.

And so we have a fairly tenable summary of the genesis of Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective and deductive genius. You yourself have witnessed his incredible tenacity when in pursuit of those who choose to commit heinous crimes. The iron ore that was Sherlock Holmes had been tempered by that point into fine steel, hardened and strengthened by the people and the circumstances of his life. He is persistent, passionate, perceptive, and powerful, tempering the unquiet of his mind by solving crimes that Scotland Yard cannot. He finds relief in the bizarre and excitement in the inexplicable. He is the self-proclaimed sociopath of Baker Street, seemingly content to live out his days in the face of unidentifiable danger. He has "friends", but the more accurate definition would probably be "people he cares about but will never admit it to their faces". So I think it is safe to say that Sherlock chose to live his life in solitude with only his brain and a skull for close company.

Which is why the sudden and seemingly random appearance of one Dr. John H. Watson into his life is such an interesting and unexpected junction.

And Sherlock loves the unexpected.

In many ways, John Watson is Sherlock's antithesis, the warm to his cold and the light to his dark (but more on that later). Sherlock does not believe in anything remotely connected to spirituality, but even he cannot scientifically explain what exactly pulled him towards John Watson that day in the lab at Bart's and consequently what pulled John towards him. In truth, they were almost complete opposites…with only a shared love of danger, adrenaline, and Earl Grey tea joining them together. And yet, whereas the polarity of their spirits might lead you to think that they would drive each other away, it only brought them together and bound them in perfect balance. It is here that we discover that Sherlock is not only steel- impure iron ore shaped and strengthened into a perfect reasoning machine—but also silk.

Silk is a luxurious textile made from the natural protein fibres woven by silk moths and other insects of the sort. Silk is smooth and soft and renowned for its sheen and lustre. It is also a strong fibre, but it is not elastic or very giving, tearing quite easily. I have commented before on the duality of Sherlock's own being, and I say here that John Watson's introduction into his life made the duality implode and soften around the edges. To most people, Sherlock was iron and steel. But to John, Sherlock was silk—soft, strong, and unyielding in his protective, possessive nature over the good doctor.

Sherlock cannot pinpoint the exact moment he realised that his doctor had become just that; _his_. He was fairly certain that the seed was planted during the encounter at the pool, when John's life was hanging on a delicate precipice directly in front of his eyes. After that moment and in all the subsequent aftermath of Moriarty's plague in their lives, Sherlock found himself to be even more protective of John—sometimes in secret and sometimes not in secret. It was a feeling that he fought with at first. Caring was not an advantage…it left you open and vulnerable and vulnerability had never sat well with Sherlock. He wrestled with his need to care for John and his need to remain quasi-objective in the face of his doctor, blogger, and friend. Oh yes, I'm sure he fought it tooth and nail, because Sherlock is nothing if not a fighter. And yet, his steeliness bent under John Watson. There was something in the doctor's own protective nature that warmed his heart and something in John's smile that made him sit straighter and breathe deeper.

As such, he fought to always keep John Watson in his line of sight. He always felt more at ease with the doctor around, even if John was sassing him about the body parts in the fridge or if Sherlock was sassing John about…well, everything. Sherlock moaned and groaned about John's tedious string of dull girlfriends. Sure, they were pretty and smart as far as average humans are concerned, but John was an extraordinary person! He could do so much better than the relatively uninteresting women he paraded around with. As such, Sherlock did everything in his power to land a case during one of John's dates, requiring him to call the doctor out. Sherlock knew it was sneaky and underhanded and that was the whole point of it. But John came without question every time it happened. He would tell Sherlock off in some way, but he always came and he never questioned it.

As they spent more and more of their lives in tandem with one another, Sherlock found that his secret possessiveness of the doctor had become an instinct, even though it was an instinct he buried deep in his soul. Sherlock's distaste for such things as emotional labels prevented him from calling it love, but he couldn't deny that it was…something like that. A love-like instinct. It was this instinct to protect what was his that led Sherlock to step off the roof of the hospital and unwillingly and unknowingly break John's heart. It was simultaneously the hardest and the easiest decision Sherlock had ever made. The choice to save John and Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade had been easy. He was no good at demonstrating his affection towards them in reality, but he hoped that they would understand his actions more than his words. He would step off a hundred buildings if it meant those three people could live to see another day.

It had been the most difficult thing Sherlock had ever encountered to leave John and make him believe that he had died. Truth be told, he wasn't prepared for the level of emotional wreckage his heart faced because…well, he'd never really felt anything for anyone like he felt for John. Desire wasn't a strong enough word. Lust didn't even scratch the surface. Affection crumbled to dust in the sight of what Sherlock felt for John. It was friendship and mutual respect and recognition. It was trust and admiration and complete acceptance of quirks and idiosyncrasies. It was utter tenderness and care and devotion as well as anger, irritability, and impatience. It was foot chases through London, endless cups of Earl Grey, ice packs on bruises, cab rides, insults, praises, and feet in the refrigerator. It was unlike anything Sherlock had ever experienced and something he had no wish to leave behind, no matter how imperative it was that he did. For the first time, he had… a someone. He had a person…his person. And he had to leave him.

Coming back to him was probably the true catalyst that sparked his shift into a creature of dualistic spirits—steel on silk, softness acting upon hardness. John had been furious and hit him rather hard, blacking his eye and damn near breaking his nose. His outrage had lasted for an agonising six days—and they were the longest days of Sherlock's life. John had screamed terrible things at him and he'd sat there and taken it all, drinking in every foul word and every curse that John flung at him, his penance for his deception. After John had fled their flat, Sherlock waited there for six days, twitching at every sound, hoping that it was the door and his doctor had come home.

It was during that tortuous six day wait that Sherlock came to realise that he loved John Watson. As he sat alone in Baker Street, he wondered if John's three year wait had been as agonising as this. If it was… well, Sherlock was already being eaten alive by the monstrous guilt of having to leave John in the first place. That additional thought just made it grow. If John had felt this every day for three years… Sherlock owed him so much more than he already did, probably more than he could ever give back. What if that was the case and John couldn't and wouldn't accept his apology? What if John would not come back? What if Sherlock had honestly and irrevocably blasted apart any chance at the friendship they'd had before? The what ifs cut a swath of fire through the core of Sherlock's soul. John was his light and his warmth… John was his heart. And if John would leave… there would be no way he could survive without his heart now.

On the seventh day, just when his despair was making his insides raw, John returned to Baker Street. He'd come in the door with wrinkled clothing and eyes ringed with dark circles and that old military stance that he pulled when he was trying to keep himself together. He'd walked very slowly up to Sherlock, who had been standing in the window with his hands clasped behind his back. They'd stared at each other for several minutes without saying a word…maybe it was days…months…millennia. To this day, neither one of them is sure how long they stood there before Sherlock had uttered "I'm so sorry, John," his voice raspy and low and choked with dreaded sentiment. No, they might not have known how long they stood there in silence, but they definitely knew who had made the first move.

John had swept a gentle hand over the bruises on Sherlock's face that he'd put there himself, gently caressing the small cut on the bridge of Sherlock's aquiline nose. Sherlock had felt his heart push the blood through his veins faster and faster under John's touch, like a conductor urging his orchestra towards their accelerando. He'd leaned into the touch but kept his hands to himself, not wanting to intrude into John's presence without his permission. His obedience hadn't lasted long, however, when John pulled Sherlock's face down and proceeded to smother him with a kiss that reduced his nerve endings to crumbled ash. His whole body felt electrified as he leaned into John's embrace and sent traitorous limbs to wrap securely around John's back. Sherlock discovered that the effect of John's mouth on his own produced a silence in his brain that was infinitely more effective than the work or the cocaine. In fact, when he felt John swipe his tongue over his bottom lip and then proceed to tangle the organ with Sherlock's, the detective's brain most definitely short-circuited. The feeling of John's strong fingers twined in his hair and pressing his face even closer gave him a high that lit the insides of his mind like a nuclear explosion. John had always been his conductor of light, but this…oh this was a glorious feeling, a broken hallelujah sobbed by a chorus of stone angels in the dying fire of an atomic collision.

It was a slower process than you might imagine, settling back into their old ways. Their newfound physical yearning for each other helped to ease the transition, certainly, but trust is not so easily regained, even if John Watson never gave up on Sherlock Holmes during his three year sabbatical. Their transition from partners to lovers was simple enough—their mutual respect for each other and indeed their love for one another made that a fairly simple process. No one was surprised (even though Mrs. Hudson tried to be, for their sake). Even so, there were fights. There were many apologies on both sides, some accepted and some not. There were compromises made and tantrums thrown by both parties. It was difficult…but they were nothing if not determined. And throughout the entire process, no matter how big the fight or how sharp the words were, they never stopped loving, and that made all the difference in the end. They went back to being partners. They went back to solving crimes and blogging about it. It was a long and arduous process, but eventually the wrong was forgiven and everything settled back into its rightful place in their world. The only difference was that now they got to kiss each other and sleep in the same bed and whisper sweet nothing into each other's ears when no one else was looking. And, to be completely frank, once Sherlock learned the ropes, the sex was mind-blowing.

And so now we see the silken side of Sherlock Holmes—the side that belongs to John Watson and John Watson alone. The side that loves and feels and cares, even if it is hidden beneath miles of arrogance and snarkiness. Sherlock is steel upon silk, and the properties of both those elements are on display to those who not only see but observe. He is a scientist, a philosopher, and a problem-solver. He is a tenacious detective and an unrepentant lover. He is a demon with a halo…an angel on fire. He is fire and ice, black and white and all the shades in between. He loves and hates, he sees but is blind. He is the day and the night. He was an unbalanced equation before; only the dark and the ice were his domain. John Watson entered his life and brought him equilibrium. John has never tried to cage his intellect, but instead has softened the edges and blurred the angles and made him…better. John has given him balance and showed him that vulnerability is not a disadvantage, but instead power…power to do things you might never have done or to see things the way you've never seen them before. And when John moves his lips and his body over Sherlock's in ways that make his brain fizzle and hiccup, Sherlock surrenders to the power of vulnerability.

He no longer sees it as a paradox and the result is glorious.


	2. Copper on Wool

**And now...John's character study, for your dining and dancing pleasure.**

* * *

_Copper—a ductile metal with high thermal and electrical conductivity. Pure copper is soft and malleable. Copper is used as a conductor of heat and electricity, a building material, and as a constituent of other metal alloys_

_Wool—a textile obtained from sheep and other similar animals. The crimp characteristic of wool's fibres makes it easier for the individual fibres to attach to one another. The crimp means that wool is slightly bulkier than other fabrics, but it retains heat better. Wool absorbs moisture (almost 1/3 of its weight) and ignites at a higher temperature than cotton and other fabrics. Its low heat release and flame spread makes it a popular fabric in high safety environments and clothing for firefighters and soldiers. _

* * *

If you ever met John Watson on the street or in a shop or at the clinic in which he works, you'd be inclined to trust the man immediately. There's just something about John Watson that screams 'You can talk to me!' Maybe it's the way he holds himself—tall and proud, but not arrogant or superior. Maybe it is the sunny smile that lights up his entire face or his authentic, hearty laugh. Maybe it's the fuzzy jumpers and well-cut jeans that he wears with confidence. Maybe it's the inherent protectiveness as both doctor and soldier that seems to exude from every pore of his being. No matter which way you see it, there's something fundamentally trustworthy about Doctor Watson.

Of course, trustworthy does not necessarily mean innocent.

In fact, it can be argued that John has spent most of his life not being innocent. He is of course bound by a strict code of honour as both a doctor and a soldier, and being a trustworthy man, he would never abandon that code. But when you lay bare the foundations of John Watson's life, you begin to see that the most honourable men are never the innocent ones. Those who live bound within a strict moral code almost never have the courage (or the idiocy) to break free and go beyond. Honour and morality don't always move hand in hand. As an army doctor, John understands this more than most people. As a doctor, he took a solemn oath to save lives and gods help him if he didn't honour that vow with everything ounce of his being. But as a soldier, he also had an unspoken oath to protect the lives of the people around him and to a more metaphorical extent, the lives of the people back home. As such, this required taking lives…because when you live and work in a war zone, that kind of thing happens a lot.

And so we see that even though John Watson is by all appearances the sort of person you wouldn't mind introducing to your parents or your friends from the office, he also has another side…and a darker side at that. This side has bad days and has killed people. This side has a fiery Gaelic temper and a short fuse (no pun on his height intended). This is the man who can share a pint with you over a match in your favourite pub and then turn around and shoot a homicidal cabbie square through two windows without batting an eye.

Not that John ever shot a cabbie square through two windows, mind you. That would be…completely unsavoury.

You see, John Watson is a bit like the wool with which his favourite jumpers are made. Wool is a textile that has a unique characteristic called a crimp (or curl) which allows the fibres to bond together more easily. This characteristic lends itself to many of the wool's likeability as an insulating fabric and a resilient fabric. John has a natural ability to bond easily with people like the crimp in wool because he's been doing it all his life. He has a knack for bringing people together and being a mediator so that civility can reign. John's desire for order and peace makes him much like insulating wool; he does his best to keep the desirable things in and the undesirable things out. It makes him a better doctor and made him a better soldier. But because no one can have a childhood like John's or endure medical school and the army without cracking just a little, John's crimp has also made him resilient and tough. It is the dual properties of wool and John Watson—strength and protectiveness—that made him so invaluable as a companion, friend, and lover throughout his life.

If we were to deconstruct John's life, I think we would find that it all started with his sister, Harriet, or Harry, as she liked to be called. When the Watson siblings were young, they were inseparable. Harriet played the doting older sister perfectly, and John played the protective younger brother with uncanny accuracy. They played together and wrestled and fought and laughed and cried and teased and joked…it was a good childhood, all in all. That is…if we were just looking at the two of them, it would have been a good childhood. The Watson matron was a patient and loving woman, if a little overworked and stressed at times. She loved her children and her family and tried to provide them with everything that they needed.

It was the Watson patriarch where things got a little sticky.

John and Harry's father was by no means a cruel man. He also loved his children and his wife and their family and did his best to make sure that they never wanted for anything. However much the man cared about his family, he was unfortunately relentlessly addicted to alcohol. It was a black spot in his family tree, a toxic vein running through too many of the patriarchal members of the Watson clan (and a few of the matriarchal ones too…). He was a happy drunk, giggly and purveyor of bad jokes and funny stories, so they never worried about undue abuse or harmful words, but the addiction was taking its toll nonetheless. He was simply convinced in his stubborn Watson way that he didn't have a problem and it was okay because the alcohol only made him giggly and sleepy and he never hit or harmed anyone.

No one was laughing when they had to put him in the ground when John was just ten years old and Harry only thirteen. As I said…not all honourable men are innocent.

Their father's death had left a deep scar on their family life. Their mother seemed to go about in a constant haze, as if she was living in a dream world and would be waking up at any second. Harry—who had adored her father—fell into a rough crowd at school and often got into fights. John took up the mantle as the man of the family at a very tender age, becoming self-sufficient and overly protective of "his girls" (adopting the term his father used for Harry and his wife). As the years went by, John became the one that saw to the daily workings of their household since his mother had fallen into a depression that wore her into a little chalk outline of the person she used to be. He made his and Harry's lunches when they went off to school. He and Harry would do the shopping when their mother couldn't. John learned how to read the bills and write the cheques and send them off in the mail. He missed his father (and consequently, his mother as well…) but he was strong and like good wool, he kept his shape no matter what came down the pipeline.

When he and Harry were teenagers, it got significantly harder for the remaining Watsons. When Harry was sixteen she came out as a lesbian to her mother and her brother. John had shrugged it off (it was all fine, in his opinion), but his mother was slightly less accepting. The woman who had shown little to no outward emotion for three years suddenly reddened with a spark of anger and slapped her only daughter across the face. Harry had been so taken aback that she'd only been able to stare at her mother for many long minutes before she got up and ran out of the room. Their mother had sunken back into her daze and the comfort of her armchair, leaving John to run out of the house and chase Harry down in the small patch of woods behind their house.

He found her in the clearing that they used to play in so often as children, sitting in the tire swing their father had put up for them all those years ago. He'd come up behind her and started pushing her in the swing, like she used to do for him. She didn't speak for a long time, but eventually the words and the tears started to spill out in a cascade. John didn't know how to stop them, so he just kept pushing her gently in the swing until she stopped it with her feet. She stood up out of the swing and hugged her younger brother like she hadn't done since the day they found out their father died. Harry was still crying and John tried to soothe her, promising that he'd do everything he could to keep her happy and safe, no matter what Mum said or did or thought.

"My hero," Harry had said with a wet chuckle and tearful smile.

And so it went…and the years passed and suddenly John was seventeen and Harry was finishing her third year at Uni. It was this time in their lives when their relationship began the slow downhill that John would eventually describe to a stranger who knew all the sordid details of his life just from his phone and his haircut. John remembers with vivid accuracy the day that their falling out occurred. He'd gone in to London to tell Harry that he had decided on going to become a doctor and join the army. He'd told their mum and she'd reacted like she reacted to most everything…with a blank stare and the barest upturn of her lips.

He'd been to Harry's flat in London several times since she moved there and he'd met her flatmate/live-in girlfriend, Clara. They'd given him a key so that he could come to stay whenever he needed to get away from their house and their vacant mother. So when he pushed the key into the lock and opened the door into their flat, what he saw shocked and scared him.

Clara was passed out on the sofa, her mouth hanging open in a silent snore, one arm thrown back and the other clutched over her half-naked abdomen. There was a half-full bottle of white wine snuggled up to her side like a glass teddy. The coffee table was littered with shot glasses and plastic cups full of a wide array of alcoholic beverages. There was a strange man passed out on the other side of the table, snoring quietly and holding a strange woman next to him (both clothed, thank god). Another strange man was slumped over on their table next to a sticky pool of watery vomit, which was going to be a nasty surprise when he woke up. John abandoned the scene and moved into Harry's room, looking for the woman in question.

He found Harry on the floor of her bedroom, wrapped in a duvet and curled on the floor, a small, crystal shot glass still clutched in her left hand. When John kneeled over her, he could smell the sickly sweet scent of wine and mixed drinks wafting up from her open mouth. A small fire erupted in John's chest at the sight of his sister passed out drunk. It was exactly this kind of thing that killed their father! How could she possibly do this….? He roughly shook her awake, saying her name quietly but firmly in her ear. I imagine their exchange when something like this:

John: "Harry? Harry. Wake up, Harry."

Harry: "Mmmmnnpfffh."

John: "Harriet Watson, wake up now."

Harry: "Nnngh. Go 'way John." (pause) "John?"

John: "Yeah, Harry, it's me."

Harry: "What are you doing here?"

John: "I came to see you."

Harry: "I gathered as much. What's going on, is everything okay? Mum okay? You?"

John: "Everything's fine, Harry. Or at least it was until I walked in here. I take it Bacchus and Dionysus were around for a little visit last night."

Harry: "I knew that Greek mythology class would pay off for you, John. Well done."

John: "This isn't funny, Harry!"

Harry: "It's a little early to start in on the self-righteous indignation, John."

John: "It's after noon, Harry. And I think I have the right to be a little miffed, thank you. What do you think you're doing?"

Harry: "Hey…this is my life, and I will live it as I see fit, thank you. Sorry if it doesn't match your standards, John. God, you're starting to sound like Mum."

John: "Don't say that, Harry. Don't ever say that."

Harry: (pause) "I'm sorry…that was uncalled for, John. But it still doesn't mean you have to barge in here and start making judgements. You could have called, you know."

John: "So then you could lie to me about this."

Harry: "Ideally, yes."

John: "Harry… why are you doing this?"

Harry: "Don't knock it till you've tried it, John."

John: "Harry, we made a pact! When Dad died…" (breath) "Harry, when he died we swore that we wouldn't touch alcohol so that our children wouldn't have to bury us like we buried him!"

Harry: "Don't be such a child, John. You're seventeen now… I'm not going to end up like Dad, I swear. And I'm a lesbian, so I probably won't have children anyway. Mum would probably appreciate it if I didn't pass along my gay genes anyway."

John: "How can you say something like that? Mum's been round the bend since Dad died, you know that. And I'm pretty sure Dad didn't think he'd end up as an alcoholic, but he did, Harry, he did and now he's dead. Didn't Dad's death mean anything to you?!"

Harry: "Of course it did! John… Dad was…. Why do you think I drink, John? I've been drinking since I was sixteen to try and forget the hell that was our life! Dad was dead, Mum was as good as gone—'''

John: "And what about me, Harry?"

Harry: "John, I—'''

John: "I guess I was just part of that hell, as well, hmm? Hell enough that you've been lying to me all this time."

Harry: "Oh for god's sake, don't do that, John. You know how much you mean to me."

John: "If I mean so much to you, then why are you trying to drink yourself into oblivion? Are you trying to leave me as well? Just like Dad and Mum?"

Harry: "Don't be so selfish, John…they left me too. Again, why do you think I drink?"

John: "You don't have to. I can… I can help, we can work this out, you don't need to self-destruct like this."

Harry: (snort) "My hero." (pause) "I don't need saving, John. I've got this handled."

John: "Harry… please…"

Harry: "You should probably go, John…everyone will be up soon."

John: (pause) "Yeah. Yeah I should probably go."

Harry: "Wait…what did you need?"

John: (pause) "I'm going into the Army, Harry… I'm gonna be a doctor, an army doctor." (pause) "Bye Harry."

John didn't speak to Harry again until he graduated from medical school. During that time, a very long nine years, the connection that the Watson siblings had shared had frayed and even John's wool-like resilience couldn't keep them together. John discovered alcohol as well, but was so restrictive of his consumption of it that his friends often ribbed him endlessly about it. Harry, he found out through some mutual friends, had fallen into the bottle as her relationship with Clara rode an emotional roller coaster. It frightened John, but he never said a word.

At twenty-six and a newly minted doctor, John went off to basic training and quickly discovered that military was exactly the place that he needed to be. The precise discipline, the order, and the chain-of-command appealed to his desire for stability, but the adrenaline rush caused by being shot at was more addictive that anything he'd ever encountered before. As a doctor and an officer, he quickly demonstrated his ability to not only take command over his men and direct them with precision, but also a knack for keeping morale high and strengthening camaraderie. His superiors noticed and before long he was a captain and in charge of a corps of medics assigned to the 5th Northumberland Fusiliers.

It was in battle that John discovered again that honourable men are not always the innocent ones and that good men die and there's nothing you can do about it. He watched good, respectable men kill other humans with their bare hands. He saw those same respectable men be torn apart by bullets and bombs, drowned in their own blood. John himself took lives with his doctor's hands in order to keep himself and his men out of the hands of their enemies. But every time he did it, he felt himself constrict with the rift of his soldier's brain and his doctor's heart. It was thrilling and exciting and heartbreaking.

It was there in the military that John thought he learned the definition of the word hero. Harry had always called him a hero for keeping their little, broken family together and functioning after their father died. John always thought he understood what a hero was, but he found himself redefining it after one particular night in the bush. It had been a surprise mortar attack on their camp and they'd suffered many casualties. John had watched on of his lieutenants take a handful of men across the barricade to flush out a nest of fighters, but they had no real tactical advantage and got slaughtered. Somehow…they did manage to silence the sniper's nest, but the damage had been done. John managed to drag one or two of them back before the chitter of gunfire opened up over the space again, but they were dying fast. The first lieutenant looked at the slaughter and then looked to John. John had asked him why he thought that had been the right time to go all heroic on them. He'd meant it as a jest to get the man to relax as the blood poured out from his chest, but the man had just gasped and said,

"You know what the definition of a hero is, Captain?"

John had replied that he didn't. The lieutenant had looked back at the remains of his men and then up at the starry night sky.

"A hero is someone who gets everyone else killed." And with that, the lieutenant had died and John absorbed the pain and the lesson like wool absorbs water. He soldiered on.

It was nine months after that encounter that John Watson received the bullet wound that decimated his shoulder and ended his career in the military. He was rotated home at the age of thirty-four and left to sit in London with only his limp, his twinging shoulder, and his nightmares for company. In the aftermath of the war, John Watson's iron resolve began to crumble. The fibres that held him together were beginning to unravel as he looked at his life and only saw his losses. He'd lost his father. His mother had never been present after that. Harry had lied and lost his trust and the last he heard was that she and Clara were in the process of a divorce and she was back on the bottle. The friends he'd made in the army…well, some of them were dead. Some of them were still hunkering in some of the meanest bush in all the Middle East, still getting shot at. Some of them had made it home, like him. He wondered whether they were in the same shape he was. He wondered if their nightmares were as vivid and decimating as his.

And so here we have a fairly tenable summary of the genesis of Dr. John H. Watson, formerly of the 5th Northumberland Fusiliers. Earlier in his life, he'd been as bright as a copper penny and as strong as the finest wool. Now, he felt like an empty shell of his former self, plagued by ghosts of the war and phantom injuries to limbs that had never been touched by bullets. He no longer considered himself any kind of hero…not for Harriet, not for the men in his outfit, not for his mother. He was unravelling at the seams, coming apart but refusing to let anyone sew him back together or mould him into something new. He was a soldier…a hardy man who had both saved men's lives and taken them. When you were a soldier, you carried on no matter what was happening. When you couldn't run anymore, you crawled. And when you couldn't crawl anymore…you found someone to carry you.

Which is why the introduction of the mad consulting detective named Sherlock Holmes into his life was a fortunate if staggering coincidence.

And John doesn't necessarily believe in coincidence.

When Mike Stamford brought him into the lab at St. Bart's, John had no idea that the man he was about to meet would change his life in so many staggering ways. It all happened so quickly…one second he was handing over his phone to the tall, dark-haired stranger with gloriously chiselled cheekbones and a voice so deep it could strike oil, and the next the man had given him a brief outline of his life and military career and then swept out of the room with a wink and a smile and a promise to meet on Baker Street to look at the flat. The rest, as they say, is history. From that moment in time, John Watson found himself inexplicably but unerringly tied to Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective and brilliant madman.

Sherlock Holmes. Bizarre name…bizarre man. But John found that whereas Sherlock's abruptness and bluntness should probably have put him off…it was strangely fascinating and John felt an odd pull towards the younger man. He went on to discover that everything about Sherlock Holmes was like that. He was irascible and rude and arrogant and completely blind to polite social protocol except when it suited his needs for a case. When he was off cases, he wandered about their flat for days in his pyjamas, experimenting on human body parts that took up residency beside the butter or sawing away on the violin. When he was on a case, he was a six foot tornado of frenetic energy and deductive power, refusing to sleep or eat until he solved the case or his body gave out from exhaustion (or when John pushed him to eat and sleep). John really didn't know how the man could go from being catatonic to energetic with only a single text from Lestrade. He was infuriating. He was brilliant. He was madder than the hatter himself. But John wouldn't have traded the chaotic roller coaster of events and moods for anything.

In fact, John realised that Sherlock was precisely the balm for all that ailed him. Within 12 hours of meeting the man on Baker Street, Sherlock had cured his psychosomatic limp and quelled the tremor in his left hand. Within 18 hours of meeting the man, John had shot a homicidal cab driver through two windows to save the detective. It was absolutely insane, but it was absolutely what John needed (and he would argue, it was exactly what Sherlock needed as well). There was an instantaneous connection between the two of them, a connection that neither one could explain in medical or scientific terms. John was not religious in any way, and frankly he wasn't even that spiritual, but if he was, he might have called it fate or destiny. No, John wasn't sure what exactly attracted them together, but it was there all the same. Sherlock healed John's brain. John healed Sherlock's heart.

It was when John became attached to Sherlock Holmes as his blogger and best friend that we begin to notice that John has taken on new properties as he bonds with a new alloy. John—in many ways—is Sherlock's antithesis. Sherlock is tall, John is not. John has lightly tanned skin from spending years in the Afghan sun, Sherlock was as pale as an Englishman could get. Sherlock tends to avoid physical touch except for the odd handshake here and there, John is a very tactile person—shaking hands, patting backs, giving hugs, etc. John is the warm to Sherlock's cold and the light to his dark. He is the heart to Sherlock's brain. John is a missing cog in the machine of Sherlock's brain, and when it's finally snapped in place, everything becomes clear. Here is where we begin to see that John is very much like copper for Sherlock Holmes. Copper is a metal that is popular because of its abilities as a conductor for thermal and electrical energy. As copper conducts heat and light, so John becomes the conductor of light and warmth for Sherlock Holmes.

John knew exactly when he realised that he felt something devastatingly akin to love for the great detective and mad scientist. John had always been protective of Sherlock…it had been obvious from zero hour when he'd shot a man to save him. It was a resurgence of all the old instincts that he felt from sheltering Harry, his mother, his brothers in arms… it was an instinct imprinted on his genetic code. Protect. Save. Watch. Care. Love. Love… the seed had been planted at the pool with the bomb, John thought. There had been something in their mutual fear for each other's lives that sparked something deep inside the both of them. John had tried to fight it, honestly he did. He'd never had an issue with sexuality or orientation in others; it was all fine. But he himself…well, he liked women. Not that he didn't appreciate an incredibly attractive man (because let's face it…no matter how straight you think you are, an incredibly attractive person is an incredibly attractive person, no matter the gender). But as a 'rule', he found himself only in the company of women. He was heterosexual…straight…vanilla. The only problem with that was, of course, Sherlock.

First off, the man had a way of capitalising John's time and energy with which no other person could ever compete. John found himself often being summoned away from his dates by the lanky detective to go on cases, and John went without question every time (not without complaint, of course, but without question). John knew that Sherlock needed him like an electric current needs a conductor, and so John opened himself to be that conductor. The git also had the bad habit of getting into situations where a murderer or a thief or some other genre of criminal would attempt to harm him or kill him, and then John would retaliate. Sherlock was no damsel in distress, but John did not take lightly to people trying to kill his best friend. The pull to defend Sherlock from bullets, knives, and fists pulled John away from everything else. This of course had the unfortunate side effect of effectively eliminating all of his attempted trysts and girlfriends.

Second off, I believe I made a statement earlier that an incredibly attractive person is just an incredibly attractive person, no matter what gender and no matter your preference. And Sherlock was one such person, damn him to hell. He was tall and finely boned, a little on the thin side, but with a shocking array of finely toned muscles hidden under the posh clothing (clothing that fit him _exactly_). He had a long, ethereal face with chiselled cheekbones, a funny mouth with a severe Cupid's bow, grey-green eyes that sparkled with intelligence, and a mop of subtly ruffled dark curls. Oh yeah, Sherlock Holmes could turn heads, and the bloody git knew it too.

Suffice to say that it wasn't hard for John to admit that he was attracted to the man, because…well, who wasn't? It was, however, much harder for him to accept that he'd be perfectly willing to re-file his paperwork and never date a woman again if it meant he got to be with Sherlock Holmes. The very notion seems deliberately insane, and John often wondered if it was a sign of his impending mental breakdown that he wanted to be with Sherlock Holmes. But…John saw all of the things in between. It was easy for others to label him as a psychopath or a sociopath or a freak because they never saw past the walls that surrounded Sherlock, and he would never let them. But John…he is different. John sees much more than Sherlock gives him credit for. He may not be able to deduce a person's residence from their cufflinks, but he can deduce little things about Sherlock's heart and soul. And he's not really a puzzle at all.

John sees Sherlock when Sherlock makes him a cup of tea just the way he likes it after a long day at the surgery. He sees Sherlock when those long musician's fingers coax John's favourite lullabies from the mahogany violin. He sees Sherlock when Sherlock gives him praise, behaves during Christmas parties, hugs Mrs. Hudson, is tender with a witness, and smiles the genuine smile that is only smiled within the walls of 221 B, the smile for John's eyes only. John sees the way that he is different when he's nursing John's wounds after particularly violent cases (which happens a lot). John sees the way that Sherlock strokes his hair and pats his back after he's had a particularly vicious nightmare. There is so much more depth to Sherlock and John sees it when no one else can.

It was when Sherlock stepped off the roof of St. Bart's that John realised that he loved the man. It is often the cruellest trick of living that we often don't have the courage to tell the people that we love that we indeed love them. And when we lose them, we sit at their graves or stare at their urns and tell them in low whispers that we loved them with all our hearts and we wish that we had told them while they were still alive. Sherlock was gone and John was quietly going to pieces. He soldiered on, because that's what he's always done. In the face of his father's death, his mother's depression, Harry's antics, and the war… John has always soldiered on. But for the second time in his life, John found himself living in a nightmare…and this time, Sherlock Holmes would not be able to appear and pull him from the shadows.

Except he did.

When Sherlock returned to 221 B after three years, John had hit him. Hard. He'd cursed at him and may have even thrown a few things. Sherlock had sat quietly with a bruised face and a potentially broken nose, absorbing it all as penance. John had stormed out of the flat and stayed away for six days, hunkering down at Lestrade's place for the time. The pain of Sherlock's deception hit him incredibly hard and he was infuriated, but hidden in the deepest part of his heart, he was soaring because one, Sherlock was back, and two, he'd done it all to save John and their friends. It was the most noble, idiotic thing John had ever witnessed, and he wondered at the irony at how those two things seemed to coincide. John thought back to Afghanistan and the night that they'd been hit by the surprise mortar attack.

_You know what the definition of a hero is, Captain_?

_Sherlock, you heroic, idiotic fool. _

_Someone who gets everyone else killed. _

_Not this time. _

And now, John experienced a flash of illumination deep in his brain. No…that's not what the definition of a hero was. Sherlock had taken the fall so that the rest of them could continue to live. John wasn't sure if that totally excused the deception and his three year disappearance, but Sherlock was not totally at fault here either. John almost chuckled. It was such a Sherlockian way to say "I care about you". John flashed back to the day he'd come back and remembered the honest, raw pain that encompassed Sherlock's face as he apologised. Then, it had angered John, but now…now it assuaged him.

So John went back. He went back on the seventh day after Sherlock's return and the metaphorical phoenix rose from the ashes. The hurts had not fizzled away. The deception had not melted. Trust would need to be rebuilt and it would be a slow and arduous task. But as John stood in front of Sherlock and stared into the weary, tortured eyes of his beloved flatmate and best friend, John felt their electric connection snap back on and once again, John became like copper, a conduit not only for the brilliance of the detective in front of him, but also for the brilliance of his own inner light. Heat and light radiated from the good doctor as he swept his genius detective down into a loving kiss, a kiss that spoke volumes where their words would have failed. And John could barely refrain from chuckling as he practically heard Sherlock's brain sputter out when he caressed the man's lips with his tongue. Genius indeed…

And so the world came back together, slowly knitting patches over the old wounds and the grief and the rage. John Watson slowly sunk back into his role as blogger, doctor, and companion to Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective. Only this time, it was better. This time, they got to kiss each other and sleep in the same bed and whisper to each other in the darkness. Sherlock continued to be brilliant and arrogant. John continued to be patient and exasperated. John Watson was copper upon wool, an enduring soul with a warm heart and the ability to bring people together. He is an excellent doctor and a steadfast soldier. He is a healer and he has killed men without blinking an eye (but they weren't very nice men). He is soft and malleable but also stern and exacting. He was a resilient man, but came back from war broken and alone. Sherlock Holmes entered his life and brought him from the shadows. He balances Sherlock's dark with his light, Sherlock's ice with his heat. John has shown him that vulnerability is not a disadvantage, but rather the power to do things you might never have done before. Sherlock has shown him that a hero is simply someone who is willing to take a step that no one else will in order to defend that which they love the most. And when John Watson is the person that Sherlock is kissing with unadulterated passion and unfathomable love, John knows that he is the thing that Sherlock loves the most.

And he knows that in their own ways, they are both heroes.

* * *

**If you've followed me this far, thank you! :) Reviews and concrit always welcome (and now that I've discovered that the notifications for my reviews and stuff have been hiding in my spam folder, I no longer believe that you all despise me and my writing! Hooray!). For some reason, Sherlock was way easier to write for me (and I am definitely more like John in my ways). **

**Next, there will be some actions shots.**


	3. Aftermath

**I've pulled some action shots out from various points in John and Sherlock's lives. This one comes from the aftermath of the pool scene (obviously...). Just a fair warning: fluff is abound. I repeat... fluff. is. abound. **

* * *

**Aftermath**

_This is quite the turn-up, isn't it Sherlock?_

_What would you like me to make him say next?_

_Daddy's had enough now!_

_That's what people DO!_

_Ah, ah, ah, ah stayin' alive, stayin' alive…_

_No you won't!_

John collapsed sideways on the sofa, not even bothering to activate his muscles groups to remain in a seated position or show any sort of decorum. Nope, this was so not the time for something as boring as decorum. Boring. Ha…oh, he was turning into Sherlock more and more with each passing day! But no, there would just a complete collapse on the sofa now, which John felt he'd earned. He'd just had a frankly alarming bomb strapped to his chest by a psychopathic criminal with a creepy voice that made the hair on the back of his neck stand at attention. John shivered in remembrance and suddenly he felt Sherlock in his immediate vicinity. It was like a sixth sense, honestly, like a…Spidey-sense. A Sherlock-sense. Sherlock-sense? God, he needed some tea, paracetamol, and his bed. He was starting to sound like an escaped loony.

"John?" the velvety baritone murmured from a direction vaguely to his left. "John, sit up, I've brought you some tea."

John grumbled something unintelligible and didn't move, even though he really wanted to sit up and snag the teacup from Sherlock's hands and gulp it all down. He felt a little bubble of hysteria trying to claw its way through his chest with very pointy claws. The tremor started in his left hand and arm and John didn't supress the groan of embarrassment.

"John?" Oh! That voice was different. It sounded worried and almost a little fearful. He heard the clink of mugs on the coffee table and Sherlock's gentle fingers probing and poking at his arms and back.

John was about to tell him to bugger off and leave him in his quiet breakdown, but that's when he felt Sherlock's deceptively strong arms physically pull him up into a half sitting position. John gave another embarrassing groan as he felt the tremors leap to his other hand and into his shoulders. The little bubble of hysteria grew and sat like a hot air balloon inside his chest cavity. He tried to breathe normally and focused on counting his heartbeats, but he couldn't seem to concentrate on them.

John was suddenly aware of a pair of strong arms wrapping around his trembling frame and pulling him backwards. He resisted momentarily before he realised that it was just Sherlock nestling him to his chest, John's back resting against it. He could feel the detective's long, steady breaths rising and falling so soothingly against him. He could also feel the rumble of his voice at the same time that he heard the soft words in his ear.

"It's okay, John, I've got you," Sherlock whispered soothingly.

John laughed frenziedly. "This is ridiculous!" he wailed, still unable to stop the tremors.

"You're in shock, John, it's perfectly normal. Just try to focus on the sound of my voice," he said calmly.

"Normal," John spat. "Normal is boring. I invaded Afghanistan, for Christ's sake!"

Sherlock couldn't hold back the chuckle at his own catchphrase coming from the doctor's tongue. "You did invade Afghanistan, John. You're my solider." Sherlock whispered the words into John's hair and tightened his grip around the shaking doctor. "But you also have PTSD, John," he added, almost as an afterthought.

"I know!" John cried in exasperation. "But it doesn't mean I have to bloody fall apart like this!"

Sherlock chuckled again, low and light. "Actually, John, I'm pretty sure it does." He shifted his arms slightly so that he could interlace the doctor's trembling fingers with his own, exerting gentle pressure and warmth to the shaking digits.

"There's nothing to be embarrassed about, John," Sherlock murmured.

"Yes there is," John muttered. "I was a soldier. Soldiers soldier on, they don't… fall apart like this. You have no idea how much I want to hold myself together, Sherlock. I really do, I just can't… I can't seem to…" he trailed off, the words evaporating from his lips.

"Oh John," Sherlock said. "You are so impossible."

"Oh that's rich coming from you! You're the king of impossible men." John asked with a shaky laugh.

Sherlock chuckled. "I suppose that makes me your king, John." He squeezed John's hands in his own and nudged the back of John's head gently with his own. They remained silent for a stretch of minutes that neither of them cared to count. They simply nestled in one another like perfectly fitted puzzle pieces, feeling one another breathe and shift. John's head was resting against Sherlock's shoulder and Sherlock had chosen to rest his head back against the couch. He couldn't help but feel an irresistible tug to nuzzle his head into the junction of John's neck and shoulder, but the man was only just beginning to ease in his shaking, so Sherlock left the added sensation out. Instead, he settled for humming a gentle tune so that John could feel the low vibrations against his back. He also used his thumbs to gently massage John's strong, sturdy hands, feeling the tremors slowly ease and give under his ministrations.

"Thank you," John croaked after what could have been an infinite number of minutes or hours or centuries. "That was…good. Thank you." Sherlock was minutely afraid that John was going to leave, but instead the doctor leaned back a little further and wriggled a little to make himself comfortable.

"I hope I never have to experience anything like that ever again," Sherlock murmured.

"You and me both, mate," John agreed.

"John…" Sherlock started, and John could hear the tone in Sherlock's voice shift ever so slightly. He craned his neck back a little more to look at Sherlock, who stared down at him with unreadable green-blue eyes.

"What's wrong?" John asked, recognising the look as the look Sherlock adopted when he was unsure or uncomfortable. He would have said that the taller man almost looked…scared, but Sherlock…well he never really got scared. Not in the classical sense of the term, anyway.

Sherlock was silent for a while and John could see the clockwork ticking away in his head, processing and tasting the words he so clearly wanted to say but was unable to at the moment.

"You don't have to say anything, Sherlock," John started.

"No," Sherlock said firmly. "I need to. John…when you… when you revealed the bomb on your chest, I suddenly found that… I was forced to think about… I mean…" He paused and blew out a breath that ruffled John's hair. "I thought about what my life and the lives of those around us would be like if you weren't there."

John continued to breathe slowly through his nose and then turned his face up to look at his friend, silently encouraging him to proceed.

"You… you mean… John, I value you in my life as my blogger, my flatmate, and the best friend I've ever had. The only friend I've ever had. You are capable of earning so much more respect than I ever give you and honestly I don't know how you've stuck with me for this long. You are…so important to me, John. And I'm sorry that it took a bomb around your chest for me to say that." Sherlock cleared his throat and John could feel the heat from the man's blushing on the back of his head.

John, frankly, was stunned. Sherlock avoided emotional outbursts like that, preferring to remain of the objective side of life. John knew that Sherlock fully acknowledged them as friends and showed his appreciation for John in little ways, and John understood that. These kind of stammering, heartfelt confessions and apologies with actual nice words were very, very rare inside the walls of 221 B. It was their rarity that made them so beautiful.

John squeezed Sherlock's hands tightly and leaned back to peck the detective lightly on the jaw, which caused the taller man to blush even more darkly than before. John chuckled and nestled back into the detective.

"You're important to me too, you brilliant git," John teased. "Thank you for telling me those things. It was good and I appreciate it." John turned his head to the side so that he could hear Sherlock's heart beating, his mood turning from teasing to solemn in the blink of an eye.

"You know I was worried about you too, Sherlock. When that sniper's laser appeared on your head… I thought we were done for. I thought I really, really screwed it up that time." John shivered as the memory swept through his mind again.

Sherlock breathed extra deeply and let it out slowly, watching John's body move with his breath. "Well," he said, "we're both fine now." And in his mind, Sherlock made a solemn vow to the doctor in his embrace and to himself that no one would ever hurt John Watson like that ever again.

"Yeah," John agreed. "We're fine now." And in his mind, John made a solemn vow that he would never again put Sherlock in a situation where he'd have to choose between John's life and his own life.


	4. Home

**Hellooooo. Just popping in for a brief halloo and a few reminders:**

**1.) I don't know where this fic is going to take me. Right now it's just some one-shots of various natures (but with a metric-ton of fluff cause that's how I do...)**

**2.) The shots are not in a linear time progression. It's a wibbly-wobbly affair just to keep you on your toes. ;) **

**3.) Send me your thoughts! I do this for two people; me and you. I know what I think (and oh what a dark, tangled mess that is!). But now you gotta let me know what you think! I value your feedback like Mark Gatiss values our souls. **

* * *

"Hungry?"

"Starving."

"C'mon, there's a place just down the street where we can get good Chinese."

"Alright."

Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade watched as the two men—the tall, dark consulting detective and the shorter, blonde doctor—left the crime scene, the former lifting up the tape so that they could both pass underneath. Lestrade saw that they were chatting and Sherlock was subtly gesticulating with his hands as the conversation progressed. Something he said made the doctor laugh, and Lestrade watched with mild surprise as Sherlock's face split into a wide grin as well. There were very few things in the world that made Sherlock Holmes smile like that. This new flatmate of Sherlock's—Dr. John Watson… well, Greg didn't know what force of the universe had landed him here, but he was already glad of it. He could already tell that John Watson was going to be a welcome addition to the small, ragtag band of people that welcomed Sherlock Holmes into their lives.

John opened the door of the small Chinese restaurant and waited for Sherlock to duck inside, muttering a thank you as he went. The place was tiny and empty, but clean and with tasteful décor. Sherlock chose a table against the far wall, taking the chair that faced out to the rest of the room. John slid into the chair opposite him and picked up a small, laminated menu from the rack.

"I recommend the egg drop soup," Sherlock commented.

John made a face. "Can't do it… there's something about the texture that gets me." Sherlock hummed in acquiescence and fell silent again.

A small, aged Chinese man walked over to the table, calling out "Mr. Holmes!" with a great enthusiasm. Sherlock gave a small smile and took the man's hand in his own, bowing slightly over it in a show of respect towards the elderly man.

"Sherlock," the man said. "It is much wonderful to see you, old friend."

Sherlock smiled. "It is nice to see you as well, Mr. Li."

"You finally find boyfriend, Sherlock, you devil," Mr. Li teased with a sly wink at John. "He's very handsome. And a doctor, too, I see."

Before John could interject with one of several exclamations that were building up behind his lips, Sherlock threw him a look and turned back to Mr. Li. "No, Mr. Li, he's not my boyfriend. This is my flatmate, Dr. John Watson. Dr. Watson, this is Mr. Li."

John automatically offered a hand to the old man, who shook it firmly with another sly wink. John smiled weakly and swallowed.

Mr. Li laughed and said, "Well, no matter. I still glad you stopped by, Sherlock. Would you like the usual?"

"If it's no trouble, Mr. Li," Sherlock said politely. "And with an order of cashew chicken for Dr. Watson, if you don't mind."

"Nothing too much trouble for Mr. Sherlock Holmes!" Li crowed. "I'll be right out with your dinner."

As Mr. Li walked away, Sherlock sniffed and went about studying something on his phone, completely ignorant to the stunned look John was giving him until the doctor cleared his throat loudly. Sherlock looked up with an overzealous innocent look plastered to his face.

"Is something wrong, John?" he asked.

"Do all the restaurant owners in London know you?" John asked in return.

Sherlock frowned. "Of course not, John. What a preposterous notion. Mr. Li and Angelo are merely the recipients of my well-timed interventions. Mr. Li had an employee who was running an illegal black market trade in Chinese antiquities out of the back. I helped him out and restored Mr. Li's reputation."

"Oh," John said, moving his arms off the table as a slim young woman brought out a ceramic pot of tea and two small cups, bowing as she left. John poured them both a cup of the fragrant jasmine tea and sipped at it while he considered his table-mate.

"You have questions," Sherlock stated. The detective took a sip of his tea without taking his eyes off the doctor.

"Is that what you do as a consulting detective then? Chase down illegal antiquity trades to restore order in Chinese restaurants? Clear people's names when they're accused of murder? Attract homicidal cab drivers and play games with them?" John had leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest, looking at Sherlock with a small smile on his face.

Sherlock cleared his throat. "Well, yes, if that's what the work requires. Honestly, you've seen what happens when I go to work, I don't see what could have confused you. This wasn't even a particularly interesting case when you boil it down to the bare facts."

John's mouth gaped a little. "Not particularly interesting? Did you forget the wild chase through the streets of London? The four serial suicides? The part where I shot a man just before you were about to swallow a pill that probably would have killed you?"

Sherlock sniffed. "Dull. Besides… there's no way to know that pill would have killed me."

"You were going to take it, weren't you?" John asked.

Sherlock was saved from speaking by Mr. Li toddling up to their table with their food, which he deposited with a flourish and a grin, retreating back to the kitchen.

John decided to release Sherlock from answering the question about the pill and chose another direction as he dug into his plate of chicken and rice. "How'd Mr. Li know I was a doctor?"

Sherlock paused with the spoonful of egg drop soup halfway to his lips and gave John a small frown. "Please try to ask questions to which the answers are not blatantly obvious. Obviousness is boring."

John scoffed into his chicken and ate for a few minutes in silence before piping up again. "Mr. Li thought I was your boyfriend. I thought… that…" He trailed off under Sherlock's raised eyebrow before mumbling, "I thought that wasn't your area."

Sherlock chuckled good-naturedly. "It's not my area. But even you must have those tedious people in your life that lament the fact that you've reached your current age without finding a…significant other and settled down." Sherlock's lips twisted around the words 'significant other'.

John laughed as well. "My mother and aunt Susan. Every holiday…same old gag."

Sherlock smirked. "Mr. Li is—like Angelo—my… aunt Susan, as it were," he said, taking another spoonful of soup.

The pair finished their meal in this manner, trading off questions and answers (although John seemed to be the one answering the questions most of the time). John could tell that this Sherlock Holmes was as mad as the hatter himself, but there was something…fundamentally good about him that he could sense through all the sarcasm and all the pretentious remarks. Sherlock could tell that the doctor was broken and habitual (war and the military had a way of doing both those things to you), but there was an underlying mystery about the doctor that intrigued him.

When they left the restaurant (avoiding another dinner tab through Mr. Li's generosity), they walked a little way up the street in the chill night air. John already noticed that the silence between them was not awkward and felt no need to fill it. Perhaps this brilliant detective would make a fine flatmate after all.

Sherlock hailed a cab and slid inside, but John stayed outside and looked in.

"My flat's just a few blocks away," he said. "I'll walk home and I'll see you tomorrow to bring my belongings around to Baker Street."

"Ah, about that, John…" Sherlock said, motioning him to get in the cab. John frowned and slid in. Sherlock gave the address to the driver and they pulled away.

"I believe my brother has already had your things collected and sent over to Baker Street for you." Sherlock had the decency to look a little sheepish. "Apparently Mycroft was… impressed by your apparent early loyalty to me and so he took the liberty of having your things brought over."

John shook his head slowly and massaged the bridge of his nose between a thumb and forefinger. He fixed Sherlock with a look.

"Is he always like that?" John asked wearily.

"If by _that_ you mean insufferable, incorrigible, and extremely nosy, then yes…he is," Sherlock answered with a small smile. John sighed in exasperation and Sherlock chuckled. He reached over and patted John lightly on the shoulder.

"Let's go home, John. Home to Baker Street."

John liked the sound of that already. Home.


	5. Value

"John! Stop!"

The words of the world's only consulting detective echoed off the walls but they went unheeded as John took off around the corner, pursuing their criminal with a kind of single-minded fury that he hadn't felt since his last tour in Afghanistan.

He chased the man through the alleyway, dodging the large bins and wooden pallets that cluttered the space. John watched in frustration as the man began to ascend some scaffolding affixed to the building, the boards and metal pieces alike creaking and shrieking under the man's rapid climb. John huffed a breath, but followed the man, his shoulder screaming in protest. From the scaffolding, the criminal tucked and rolled into an open window and John followed not a second behind him, finding that they were now in an open loft space, empty and dusty.

The criminal was dancing around the space, looking for an exit with wild, frantic eyes. John didn't have his weapon (an action for which he cursed himself), so he drew himself up to his full height and assumed his Captain Watson voice.

"Give it up, Cavanaugh. There's no way out." Or at least…John hoped that was the case. They'd been chasing this bastard for weeks. He was a cold-blooded murderer, and he'd taken up a subspecialty of murdering invalided war veterans. Sherlock had been brought in after his fourth kill—an Afghan war veteran who had been in John's regiment as a systems analyst. If it was one thing soldiers hated, it was other soldiers getting killed, especially outside of a war zone. Knowing that the twitchy man across from him had murdered broken soldiers like himself… it fuelled a fire deep inside John's gut. "You're not winning this round. Scotland Yard will be on us in a few minutes and then it's goodnight Vienna."

The man—Cavanaugh—laughed viciously. "You sound awfully sure of yourself, Dr. Watson." John blanched as Cavanaugh stepped forward into the light and drew a handgun from the back of his trousers. Oh…he'd missed that part.

Cavanaugh aimed the weapon at John's head and smirked in victory. "Get on your knees, Watson," the man ordered. John stiffened and remained standing, so Cavanaugh dropped the gun and squeezed off a round into the floor by John's feet. He couldn't help but flinch and slide away from the bullet. Cavanaugh laughed again and motioned with the gun for John to get on his knees. John's lips thinned into a tight line of distaste, but he did as he was told, sinking slowly to his knees. Cavanaugh pointed the gun to John's head and flashed him a toothy, maniacal grin.

"Didn't see this coming, did you?" he sneered.

"I did." John's heart melted with relief as he heard Sherlock's svelte baritone echoing from the space behind him. Cavanaugh's face contorted with disgust and mild terror.

"Stay away, Holmes," the man snarled. John grimaced as Cavanaugh gripped his bad shoulder hard and spun him around to face Sherlock, pressing the barrel of the gun to his temple as he did so. "Stay away, or Dr. Watson gets a hole in his head."

Sherlock's eyes glittered with fury but his lips quirked into a sneer. "That would unwise, Mr. Cavanaugh. If Dr. Watson does not walk out of here alive, neither do you." John exhaled sharply and for the briefest of moments, the doctor and the detective locked eyes. Something that John could not explain passed between them in those seconds before Sherlock looked away and John's head pivoted as Cavanaugh drove the gun further into his temple.

There was a loud pounding and rattling on the door in the corner of the room, and the shouts of Lestrade and a team of Met police could be heard through the thin walls. Cavanaugh snarled in frustration and Sherlock took a predatory step closer. John groaned as the man gripped John's bad shoulder tighter, eliciting sharp shocks of pain to flutter through the shredded nerve endings.

"I mean it Holmes," Cavanaugh said in a shaky voice. "Stay over there or I'll kill him."

"The game's up, Cavanaugh," Sherlock said, his voice low and menacing. "It's over. There's no way out. Release Dr. Watson immediately and surrender."

The next few seconds moved so quickly that after, John wasn't sure whether they'd actually happened at all. First, Cavanaugh had struck John with the butt of the handgun, knocking him unconscious to the floor. Second, Lestrade and the police burst through the door with an explosive snapping of broken hinges and splintered wood. Third, Sherlock realised what Cavanaugh was about to do and lunged for him. Fourth, Cavanaugh stepped away from Sherlock and raised the gun to his own temple and pulled the trigger.

Cavanaugh's body collapsed to the floor and the policemen behind him stepped back in shock. Sherlock recoiled so sharply that he tripped and fell to the floor next to John. Both men were covered in a mist of blood and John had another cut at his hairline that was sending rivulets of blood down his face. When the doctor revived after his blackout, Sherlock was dabbing at the wound gently with his shirtsleeve. John winced in pain and pulled away from Sherlock's ministrations.

"Mmm. Sherlock, it's okay. I'm fine," he said. John's eyes widened when he realised that the two of them were covered in misted blood.

"Oh my god, are you okay? What hap—''' he cut off his own words as he saw Cavanaugh's lifeless body a few feet away, the blood pooling around his head.

"Damn," he growled, attempting to sit up. His head protested and his vision see-sawed, causing him to throw out a hand and latch on to Sherlock's coat lapels. He felt the detective slide an arm around his shoulders, supporting him gently. But when John looked up to Sherlock's face, he was met with an angry glare.

"What?" John whispered as his head swam again.

"You should not have done that," Sherlock growled, lowering his voice so that the other people in the room couldn't hear (not that they would have been able to, due to the commotion of people milling around a crime scene).

"Done what?" John asked. When Sherlock only glared at him, he sighed. "He was going to get away again, Sherlock. I couldn't… I couldn't let that happen."

"You almost got yourself shot, you idiot," Sherlock muttered. "Again. You shouldn't have run off like that. You should have stuck to the plan, John."

John adjusted himself so that he was sitting more upright and facing Sherlock, but he still had to have the detective's arms supporting him. He fought the dizzying nausea to focus on the man across from him, slight irritation bubbling in his chest. "Well that's the pot calling the kettle black, don't you think? Our plans never work. We plan, we show up, all hell breaks loose. And it's usually because you get all caught up in your inner dialogue and just run off without us. You'd have done the same thing today if I wouldn't have gone first and you know it."

Sherlock's grip on his arms tightened and John found himself staring down the infinity of Sherlock's grey-green eyes. What he saw there was unfathomable…it was concern and worry and frustration and disappointment and relief and hope.

"Irrelevant. You are not allowed to die on me, Doctor Watson. I do not consent to have you needlessly risking your life like that." Sherlock's words were delivered in a bucket of ice, but John could hear the desperate plea underneath them.

"Hey, I had everything under control, I wasn't going to die! And for the record, I don't need your consent to risk my life, Sherlock," John found himself saying. "In case you hadn't noticed, that's kind of what we do. You do it at least one time per case!"

"My life is not as valuable as yours!" Sherlock cried through gritted teeth. John's breath caught in his throat as he watched Sherlock duck his head away, a pink tinge creeping up his cheeks. John felt himself softening at this rare show of vulnerability and used two fingers to raise Sherlock's chin up so that their eyes were meeting again.

"Don't say that, Sherlock," John said softly. "Your life is infinitely more valuable than the life of a broken soldier and doctor."

"Not to me," Sherlock whispered, another blush spreading on his face.

John abandoned all decorum and ignored the cluster of Yard officers in the distance as he reached across and pulled Sherlock into a strong embrace. He felt Sherlock go stiff at first at the contact, but within seconds he had relaxed and wound his arms around John's back. They stayed there for a while as time seemed to slow around them, flowing and fluxing around them like a metaphysical river. John felt Sherlock mumble something into his neck.

"What did you say?" he asked. He wriggled as he felt Sherlock's lips close to his ear.

"I said, you're **my** broken soldier, John. You can't go." John breathed deeply to ease the clutch of his metaphorical heart muscles. The plea was so small and child-like…another gentle reminder that Sherlock was still so young and so inexperienced at these things. John squeezed the man tighter and moved so that his own lips found the shell of Sherlock's ear.

"I won't go, Sherlock," he promised. John looked up and saw a concerned Lestrade moving towards them, so he squeezed Sherlock again and then let go. Sherlock kept his hands on John's forearms to keep the doctor steady. Lestrade squatted next to them and joined the huddle.

"Do you think you can stand and walk to the ambulance, John?" Lestrade asked.

John nodded. "Yeah, but I'll need some help. I should be checked over for a concussion," he added. He felt Sherlock's hands tauten on his forearms, so he looked at him and said, "Just in case, Sherlock."

With Lestrade's help, they hustled John out of the room and down to the waiting wagon, where John was loaded in and shipped to the hospital for a more conclusive concussion test. Sherlock rode with him and held on to his fingers the whole time. After the barrage of tests had concluded and they were ready to release him, the nurse bundled him into a wheelchair, insisting that his boyfriend had been causing a ruckus, demanding to know where he'd been taken and what his status was.

John didn't even bother to correct her.


	6. Trust

**From Sherlock's POV**

I could feel the tedium of everyday life beginning to sink into my pores and infect my being like a virus. We'd been six days without and case and I'd been three days without any experiments or anything of note to work on. My mind was chomping away, blindly roaring for more data and more sensory input that wasn't something so dull. I considered going into the kitchen to find something to light on fire just to ease the blandness, but two things stopped me.

1.) John never appreciated my tendency towards arson in my stretches of boredom.

2.) There came a sharp rapping at the door to our flat.

Interesting. It was obviously a client, since Mrs. Hudson, John, and Mycroft never bothered to knock and Lestrade always texted before coming over. I suppose it might have been Molly, but the knock was too bold to be Molly. Simple process of elimination stated that it must be a client to see me. And since John was still at the clinic, I was going to have to get up and answer the door.

I heaved myself off the couch and straightened my shirt and dusted lint from my trousers. I'm sure John would be proud to see that I had at least put actual clothing on today and was going to greet said client with said clothing on, instead of in my dressing gown or sheet. He always got so grumbly when I wandered around the flat in my sheet. He didn't seem to like the fact that I would always respond to his grumbles by suggesting he try it sometime.

I walked to the door and opened it, preparing to deduce the person on the other side. I decided to make a game out of it. How much could I deduce before they could sit in the vacant armchair? What I saw on the other side of the door, however, made my mind sputter and choke.

The man standing there with a leering grin on his face was a person I had never trusted, but had once depended on. I had been seeking an escape from the world's idiocy and the madness of my own mind and he had given me refuge. I'd been lured in by the promise of release and even though I knew he was the proverbial snake-oil salesman, I'd taken the bait. He was my old cocaine dealer, a man as tall and sinewy as myself, but with shoulder-length hair that was tied at the nape of his neck and dark-chocolate eyes that glittered with the promise of sinful things.

"Hello, old friend," he intoned with a wicked smile. "Good to see you up and about this time a day." His cockeyed English accent reverberated in the base of my skull and a thousand memories of darker days flooded my mind. I drew myself up to my full height and glared at him.

"I am not your friend and you are not welcome here." Before I could slam the door shut, he had jammed his foot in front of it and then sidled sideways into the flat with a sneer. I thinned my lips and exhaled slowly as he plopped himself down in John's chair. The sight of this crass man sitting in John's chair made me want to gouge his eyes out with a spoon. This man—Xavier Cristoff—was everything that John was not and it sickened me to see this man befouling John's chair with his presence.

"I would not advise that you stay in that chair or in this flat for another moment, Mr. Cristoff," I said through gritted teeth. In response, he tisked loudly, clicking his tongue against his straight teeth and put on a fake pout.

"So formal, Sherlock? I really don't think we have to stand on ceremony, even though it has been too long since you last called. It's rather rude, don't you think?"

I exhaled slowly, kneading the bridge of my nose with my fingers. I could feel the memory of the cocaine in my blood like a river of ice-cold fire and the scarred pinpricks on my arms tingled. I would be lying if I said that I had never felt the call to the shiny white powder after I'd gotten clean. Addicts never really recover… it is in the very nature of addiction that recovery is never wholly possible—hence why it's called addiction. You just find other things to distract you. And if you're lucky, your distractions won't kill you as fast as your addiction.

"What do you want, Xavier?" I asked wearily. John would be home soon and Xavier needed to leave before that happened.

Instead of speaking, Xavier reached into his coat pocket and retrieved a small bag filled with an inconspicuous amount of white powder. I inhaled sharply and he heard me, waving the bag around lightly in victory.

"We miss seeing you around, Sherlock," he teased. "Don't you know what it does to a man who loses so loyal a customer and then doesn't hear from him for years?"

"I'm sorry for your loss," I spat.

"So feisty," he cackled, tossing the bag to me. I caught it out of reflex and held it in my cupped hands. I could almost feel it stinging my skin.

He stood and sauntered back over to the door. "I thought I'd bring you a little homecoming present, Sherlock. It isn't every day a man resurfaces from the grave." He looked back at me with a small smirk on his face. I resisted the urge to flinch at his words. I'd come home about five months ago, back from a three year hiatus from the land of the living and a three year mission to topple Moriarty's web.

"How kind of you," I hissed, trying to lace enough venom in my words to physically poison the man. "Now leave my flat and do not ever step foot on this street again."

He laughed and gave me a zealous wink, then blew me a kiss with a loud smacking noise. "Farewell, love," he sang as he meandered out the door, not bothering to close it behind him. I exhaled slowly and closed my eyes, trying to quell the fluttering in my chest. I opened my hands and stared at the little plastic bag with a dual bubble of desire and fear swelling in my chest. There was a time in my life when this plastic bag of powder would have been the solution—the seven per cent solution—to all of my problems. But as I heard John's step on the landing, I came to the very slow realisation that it was about to be the root of my problems.

"Sherlock, do we have a client? I just ran into him on the way—''' I looked up with wide eyes as John crossed the threshold and saw what I knew was a very incriminating picture. He stared at my now open hands and the little bag that rested in them. I struggled to swallow and speak as I saw John's features glaze over in disappointment and anger.

"John," I began shakily, "I swear, it's not what it looks like, I didn't—'''

"Don't," he interrupted, holding up a hand. I watched him draw a shaky breath and drop his hand, which was trembling now as well.

"Back to the cocaine, Sherlock? Really? The drugs, after all this time?" His disappointed tone hurt me far worse than any of his fury could have. I felt guilt and frustration build up in me. I just needed him to understand!

"No, John!" I cried desperately. "I swear to you, I didn't purchase it. He showed up here and handed it to me. I asked him to go, I swear I did but he wouldn't leave. I wouldn't—'''

John's upraised hand interrupted my babbling again. "I trusted you," he said in a low voice. "I can't believe you. Are you really that bored that you'd go back to the drugs? That shit is dangerous, Sherlock, you can die that way."

I sighed in exasperation. "I'm well aware of that, John, but I didn't—'''

"Isn't dying once enough for you?" he asked. My mouth dropped open on its own accord and I stared at him. He stared back at me with an expression of such sorrow and loss that I felt my stomach drop out of my torso and into my feet.

He turned to walk back out the door, but I was suddenly seized with an intense fear that he would never come back. I sprang into action, striding across the space and grabbing his hand, dragging him along with me. I could hear his sputtering protests and frantic attempts to claw out of my grasp, but I wouldn't let him. I dragged him down the hall and into the small lavatory, shoving him inside and following, closing the door behind us. I snapped on the lights.

"Sherlock!" he yelled. "What the hell do you think—''' His words cut off as I held up the bag of cocaine in between us. I stared at him with a degree of intensity that I knew would incapacitate him. He stared back at me, his chest heaving with emotional and physical upheaval. Then, I very slowly leaned over and lifted the lid of the toilet. I knew his eyes were watching me, so I looked back up at him and then dropped the bag into the porcelain bowl, flushing it down with a flourish. John looked at me with wide eyes.

"I don't need it, John," I mumbled while staring at a point beyond him. "I don't want it like I used to. I don't need it." I turned away and walked out of the room, but I stopped halfway out the door and turned back to look at him.

"And for the record," I added, "I don't want to die. Not now…and not that day either."

A few hours later, I was sitting on the couch with an academic journal on forensic medicine that I had stolen from John's collection. John himself was tinkering in the kitchen and the silence in the flat was deafening. He'd retreated to his room after our…encounter…and had stayed there until a half an hour ago. I shook my head and retreated back into the article I was reading, determined to remain as cool and collected as possible.

I was mildly surprised when John walked into the living room with two bowls of soup in his hands. He walked over to me and nudged my leg with his foot, drawing my attention out of the journal. He swallowed hard before offering me the bowl, which I took from him with one hand whilst putting the magazine down with the other. He took a seat next to me on the couch with his own bowl. We had been eating in silence for a few minutes when I felt him lean over and nudge my shoulder gently with his own.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock," he said. I waited a few seconds before I looked over at him. His head was lowered, but I could tell that his eyes were aimed sideways at me.

"I should have trusted you," he continued. "I do… I do trust you. I'm sorry."

I let the redemption of his apology wash over me for a few minutes before tentatively reached over and squeezed his hand with mine. I felt my lingering guilt and fear and frustration ebb away as he turned his hand so that our fingers interlaced and he squeezed back tightly. It was his promise; our silent promise that we would trust each other and work harder to mend the broken fences between us.

"Thank you, John."

* * *

**If you're following along, I give you all my thanks and all my love. *bows deeply* I was so alone and I owe you so much. **

**Upcoming: a few more one-shots. Harry's character study. Mycroft's character study. :) Stay tuned.**

**PS: If you've been following, note that I have changed the title/description to more accurately represent what this is about... :) **


End file.
